Illidan x Kael'thas
by Flagfish
Summary: Prince Kael'thas tends to Illidan after his defeat against Arthas at Icecrown. M/M
1. Chapter 1

Strong, gentle hands. Elegant, delicate, proficient in manipulation of the arcane, quiet words in Thalassian; Prince Kael'thas serenely composed while at work dressing Illidan's wounds. The velvet slide of red fabric, low swing of his hair, tenderness that came entirely unintended, _but which was so difficult not to give_.

XXX

_I've got no beef with you, personally_, that's what Illidan might've said to Arthas when they took each other on, after the march on Icecrown and the battle there. He couldn't admit to it even if he wanted to, however, how he'd become a pawn of Kil'Jaeden whether he fancied it or not.

He might've said, _I just want to be left alone, you see, I'm heartbroken_. But you couldn't really expect him to say something like that; in the end, he said nothing, because, in the end, he lay motionless in the naked snow, somewhere between stupor and cognizance, defeated at Arthas' blade and dead to all the world. He'd been made to take out Arthas _before he became too powerful_, but it seemed he'd become too powerful already; was that his own blood dying red through the ice…?

There was a heavy burden forever cast on his heart, a watchful fire he'd never escape, and such was the duality of his very soul; through the tendrils of sleep he could hear the hushed voices of Prince Kael'thas Sunstrider and Lady Vashj, speaking in something disturbingly like concern, he was aware he'd been taken home.

_Home_ to the Black Temple, where once he'd driven the pit lord Magtheridon out and into captivity, because that's what he'd meant all along, to defeat the Legion, _but it never was his choice to make_. If you'd have asked him, he didn't have beef with a lot of people, _except that he'd been imprisoned for ten thousand years_.

That is, he really had beef with Malfurion, his twin brother.

Like a lot of trite stories, this one too boils down to one tired cliché, where two brothers fought over the same woman. Whether Tyrande Whisperwind was really worth it, who knew, but the fact remained that Illidan loved her, and she loved his twin brother, Malfurion. You'd think she could've just as easily picked Illidan, seeing as back then, the two looked the same.

That is, before Illidan became the not-quite-demon, not-quite-elf mess of uncertain loyalties and unstoppable power, what with the wings and the markings and eyes of fire and horns.

So having to deal with that was bad enough, but on top of that there also was the fact that, like any pair of brothers, the two constantly argued and battled and fought, and Malfurion was really rather self-righteous, and this culminated with him imprisoning Illidan personally for those ten thousand years, because he was _too powerful_ or _too reckless_ or whatever envy translated into at the time.

Funny how Illidan never came after Malfurion personally. He came after his prison guard who hunted him after his escape instead; maybe somewhere inside he enjoyed the pursuit on part of Maiev.

There was the low crackle of fire. Indiscriminate shadows dimly taking form, Prince Kael'thas dressing the wounds on his back.

Misery loves company, as they say.

Have you grown tired of that tired cliché yet, of two guys fighting over one woman? Whoever wrote Warcraft lore apparently hadn't, just how many bitter male nerds had cried over someone else _taking their girl_, I wonder, before writing the bit about Illidan and Malfurion, then Arthas and Kael'thas, and how Arthas had _taken Jaina Proudmore all to himself_.

So you had Kael'thas inwardly sad about that, and that's what lay beneath the desperation with which he sought a way to save the High Elves, his people, after being betrayed by the Alliance and saved by the naga witch, Lady Vashj.

That's how he'd formed his alliance with Illidan: here, curiously enough, was the first show of compassion he'd been offered in regard to helping the Sin'Dorei. You'd think they were evil. You wouldn't understand.

Illidan became aware somewhere in sleep that Kael'thas was quietly singing, murmuring low in Thalassian, humming a tune he'd never heard. After many years, his hands still aristocratic and gentle, unstained by battle and a history colored with blood. Somewhere far, very far back they were kin.

Kael'thas tended to his wounds with nothing like the druidic medicine Illidan might have remembered from thousands of years before, it were manipulation of magic, but finely-tuned and elegant in a way that came second nature to him, and was humbling in its intrinsic proficiency. He could hear the soft rustle of scales, Lady Vashj's exit from the room. He could hear the end tail of their exchange, _he needs his rest_.

He became aware of the clean scent of fabric, Kael'thas' robes, red and gold, his hands graceful and strong as he worked on his wounds. _He needs his rest_, Illidan realized they'd said so, because it was only matter of time before Kil'Jaeden would arrive with vast dissatisfaction at his failure to defeat Arthas.

"Leave me," he quietly said, his first words since losing consciousness at Icecrown.

The hands at his back momentarily stopped; "You're awake," Kael'thas said, resuming his work after that. Being wounded like this, it was humiliating. Illidan shifted in place, one heavy wing going part of the way to unraveled when it stopped in place with a shock of pain. He cringed, and Kael'thas shook his head, carefully folding the appendage back on itself.

"Don't be stupid," his voice came quiet and composed, he was aware this was something for which the Lord of Outland was too proud, but he, too, had been tired. It occurred to Illidan this was something Kael'thas enjoyed, the Sin'Dorei craved magic the way dwarves may long for the drink. Here, of course, was something Kael'thas was too proud to admit to, as well.

They both had gone quiet with an unspoken agreement to let each other be, there came the soft singing again, melancholy, bittersweet, neither one would ever _be home_ again.

_(On to Chapter 2)  
_


	2. Chapter 2

You might forget a guy who'd endured his eyes being burned had been _human_, in the sense that _human_ implied a creature of emotion and reason, who felt pain and had erred and had cried. You might forget, or you might say no creature was _human_ when he was half-demon, given the sort of powers Illidan had; and you would be right, except that Illidan still was a creature of reason and pain, and driven to the end of his days by unrequited love.

Now after his defeat at Arthas' hand, some might say reason was next to go, but the same would be said about Kael'thas, when one day he would submit to the Legion at last. He really had been too trusting. He really had been too naïve, too easily seduced, but, really, he wanted nothing more than to save his people.

They would be called _the Illidari_. Somewhere inside, it did Kael'thas good to lay his trust in Illidan.

There was beneath all a childlike innocence to him that was almost uncomfortable, like he _should have known better_. He shouldn't have been so obedient, to trust the likes of Garithos and the Alliance; perhaps he consented to Illidan too readily, as well, when he'd offered help. He'd have been imprisoned in Dalaran to this day if not for help on part of Lady Vashj, he'd been so _desperate_ for rescue.

He really was good with his hands. For all that was said of the Sin'Dorei's transgression owing to magic, here was an art at which they'd become quite adept. Illidan would almost anticipate his handiwork, there would be no words exchanged, each would regard it a task of necessity, and not a desire for friendship they could do without.

Times Illidan would find Kael'thas quietly reading alone, colored flames dancing green and gold in his hand, something of which he was almost ashamed. His lips moved with soft incantation, words inaudible, visibly guilty against an irresistible urge that couldn't be stopped. It was heart-wrenching somehow, there was nothing to be done for the blood elves' addiction, but Illidan had kept his promise to provide them with magical energies.

Kael'thas played music too, all manner of aristocratic habits that wouldn't wear off, something ridiculous for a race of refugees. Illidan would hear him late into the night, quietly singing in Thalassian, once he had followed down a stairwell to find him dancing with the ghost of fragmented memories in his mind. Eyes serenely closed, hands delicately resting midair, feet moving with immaculate rhythm. Voice gentle and low, _the Song of Elune_.

It had Illidan shiver. Something ancient trembled inside him, lost and buried with time. The gold shimmer of the prince's hair, the vivid red of his robes, radiant even in the dark room, graceful and meticulous; there was an old music box now rusted and decaying at the gears, which Tyrande had given Illidan long ago…

_He could imagine her dancing, barefoot in the ivy and twisted roots of trees, flowers and leaves in her hair. _

The ominous fel glow of lights in the Temple, demonic through and through even without the pit lord to govern it; despite all this, Kael'thas' footsteps left thermal impressions of silver and gold on the tiles, ridiculous pride that tormented him and of which he could not rid himself.

_I did not know_, Illidan thought, _that anyone here still praised Elune_.

Illidan felt himself a cumbersome presence when faced with the elegance of such things, _the betrayer_, shunned by the Moon Goddess, herself. Only Kael'thas had looked after his wounds, and Illidan didn't like having his wounds inspected and the dressing picked apart, but _he didn't really remember what it was to be looked after_.

There were things he remembered, terrible things, humiliations he'd suffered under Maiev's watch, Kael'thas hadn't said a word when he unraveled the bandages and saw the old scars; to be bound, helpless, for so many thousands of years, _did Malfurion know what he had been made to endure?_

There were rooms in the Temple of which Illidan didn't well know, which he hadn't visited, there were wide arrays of instruments of music of cultures he'd never known; Kael'thas' clever hands had found their way to them with proficient skill, _It's like a harp, you see_, he said with a subtle note of melancholy, as though ashamed of how he longed to play it, juvenile in attempting to preserve the past.

It made Illidan angry, he felt graceless and grotesque, _but very long ago, he had in him latent druid power, as well_.

"What use would a pit lord have for such things," he muttered with irritation, "other than as prizes and trophies of war—"

Kael'thas looked up from the harp, fingers gliding already midair over the untouched strings, he worked at tuning them with something like nurturing fondness. "Come here, give me your hand," he quietly said, he took Illidan's fingers in his.

It was an insolent gesture, and vastly annoying, but he was aware of this, as well. Illidan's fingers were long and clawed, still elven somehow beneath the part-demon he had become. No words were exchanged as Kael'thas directed his hand to the strings, his fingers curled outside Illidan's, careful and steady.

Illidan felt infinitely daft, but the first notes of music had stopped him; there was forlorn, delicate melancholy, it became evident the room was built with proper acoustics for instruments like these. _What would a pit lord…_

"Stop this," his voice came sober and quiet, he looked away in defeat, "the days of celebration and song are far behind us." _However, it had been such a sad song_.

The notes slowly diminished to a halt, the reverberating echo haunting through the expanse of the room. "Sorry," Kael'thas said, it had been childish to dream of such things. He felt Illidan's hand slip out form his, as though he were afraid to taint a thing of material beauty like that.

Late some nights, Illidan still would see Kael'thas dance.

Like a dark matter of guilt, Illidan would look upon what had been left of Tyrande's music box, the gears rusted and broken, far beyond the point of repair. Trying to restore it with magic would be too obscene, an unnatural treatment for something so fragile; the ruined contraption appeared too delicate in his large hand.

When Kael'thas had come to clean Illidan's wounds in the morning, he found him asleep at his study, a rusted bundle of scraps in his grasp.

Illidan held onto it possessively, the parts twisted and tarnished with time, a hideous collection of rusted, miniature gears; he held on to them so tightly there were imprints of the metal in the flesh of his palm. It occurred to Kael'thas that, for some, the days of celebration and song never came to begin with.

_There was no time now for things such as these._ Preparations had to be made, soon Kil'Jaeden would seek out the Lord of Outland; Kael'thas leaned forth very gently and kissed Illidan's forehead, just where the blindfold gave way.

_(On to Chapter 3)  
_


	3. Chapter 3

There were unspoken things between Kael'thas and Illidan. It wasn't something on which to dwell, because the days had become filled with work in preparation for the Legion's likely arrival. Even after the sealing of portals, Kil'Jaeden was certain to break through, and defenses were constructed in that regard. The Illidari were trained strategically in battle, and Illidan invested himself even with injuries fresh from Icecrown, impervious to the pain, unaffected by the fight and visibly seasoned with war.

He and Kael'thas would eye one another on return from the training field, both tired with military administration, both sorcerers but Illidan also adept as a warrior at armed combat. He refused to be bandaged. He refused to be cared for, he refused to speak on a personal level with anyone. He and Kael'thas would eye one another across the black Shadowmoon earth, overworked and tired, hair tangled in the dense nether winds.

They had been partway on their return to the Temple, soil crunching dry beneath their feet, skin damp with the after-effect of physical exertion, famished from hours of work. There was in the air tension of uncertainty, unawareness of how well they might fare against Kil'Jaeden or when exactly he'll strike. On their journey back, Kael'thas thought his voice was hoarse with commanding the armies that day, that he'd grown weary even of practicing magic, his expression was sober and visibly drained.

"Come here," Illidan's tone issued low and hinting subtly of irritation, his hand came on Kael'thas' wrist and he pulled him forcibly— but it wasn't intended as a gesture of unkindness. Kael'thas stumbled, he didn't resist, there was hunger in Illidan's voice which he understood. Illidan got both his wrists in his hands, he pressed Kael'thas back against the Temple wall and held him in place while seizing his mouth.

This was something long overdue.

They didn't realize how much they wanted it until it came, Kael stiffened entirely, breath suspended, eyes tightly shut. His wrists were devoid of strength in Illidan's hands. When Illidan withdrew, Kael'thas reached after him, _like he wasn't finished_. Still restrained by the wrists, he leaned forth far as he could and kissed him again, tugging his lip with his teeth. Illidan's body had become familiar to him through the times he'd tended to his injuries and wounds, the extent of his physical strength, his mannerisms and gestures.

"Turn around," Illidan said when Kael'thas withdrew, he released his wrists and stepped back while he did so, both impatient, like they'd consented to this without actual exchange of words.

He thought of Kael's aristocratic hands at the harp, on a quill when planning military strategy, or turning the pages of books; there was no attempt at elegance now as Kael reached for the elaborate hems of his own robes, aware without speaking directly of their mutual intent. Kael'thas gazed over his shoulder impatiently, they both were going at his clothes now, Illidan's clawed hands hot on his skin;

The scrape of their feet on the rubble, rustle of cloth, low inspiration of breath; Kael'thas cursed when he felt the hot insistence of flesh on his thighs from behind, his robes hitched gracelessly somewhere round his hips at the back. His hand trembled as he reached backward to take the member blindly in his hand, slick and wet, he felt the fluid hot against his inner thigh; there was an urge in him to turn around and drop to his knees, to take the member impatiently in his mouth, but he knew self-restraint; "_Go on already_," he muttered, absently sliding Illidan's member against his thighs from behind, unable to proceed further with the small distance between them.

"Silence," Illidan chastised, _it wasn't in his nature to be rough in intimate regard_; he was just so _hungry_. He'd been rough with Malfurion, but that was something different, he'd treat his brother with the same sort of loathing that he'd treat himself. But, somewhere inside, Illidan was a gentle creature, conflicted and tormented, he denied things like vulnerability and affection. He wasn't certain what it was between him and Kael'thas, there was certain relief that the prince had already seen him at his most wretched hour.

The long fabric of Kael's robes hung tangled where he held them suspended at his waist, bothersome and irritating, there was annoyed cooperation between them as they both held them back. Both their hands went to Kael's behind, Illidan's finger wet at his entrance.

He'd meant to be gentle because the digit was clawed, Kael'thas told him not to be bothered, he needn't be so concerned. He pressed Illidan's finger inside himself, cursing in Thalassian, forcing it in all the way to the knuckle. Illidan remained as though helpless somehow, but painfully hard, it occurred to him how badly they both wanted to be touched.

"_You want more_," he muttered, slowly stroking another finger against his entrance, and Kael'thas cursed under his breath,

"_Just fuck me already_."

It came almost as shock, even if it was what they'd both intended to do. He understood, it had been dreadfully long for both of them. They'd got to it so rapidly he nearly protested, _but you are not prepared_, but he didn't speak. Kael'thas exhaled tensely when the digits slid out, he moved backward against Illidan as on impulse, already reaching back to finger himself.

"Move your hand," Illidan said, they both reached for his member, it was slick with fluid and slid wetly against Kael's behind. He tensely held his breath while bringing himself in position, stroking absently, fighting not to succumb to his own hands' ministrations. There issued wet, profane sounds when it went in, they both stiffened, Illidan's clawed hand tight on the flesh of Kael'thas' naked hip.

"_Idiot, move_," Kael'thas' voice came low, he already was pressing back against him, moving slowly, and Illidan was annoyed by that. "Watch your tongue," he warned, and Kael'thas apologized, audibly pained, like he were desperate for more. He felt Illidan's hand slide round his abdomen, possessive, large and strong, he pressed into him hard from behind. In all the way, until Kael'thas was fighting for balance, both hands clinging onto the wall; there came the humid warmth of Illidan's breath at the crook of his neck, the slight brush of his blindfold, black strands of his hair. He remained still for several moments, unmoving, as though inwardly searching for any recollection of what such a thing was like.

Kael softened at that; he didn't make further demands and instead kept his patience, even as he was painfully hard under his robes. He waited for Illidan to start moving on his own, surprised and uncertain what to make of the way he had gripped him, the way he kissed his neck; _if he hadn't known better, he might've mistaken this for tenderness_.

_To be continued…_


End file.
